


i waste my truth on you

by hollow_dweller



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Beck is a Very Bad Man in this fic, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, Hurt/Comfort, I would like to reiterate once more for those in the back, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Iron Fam, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Manipulation, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Other, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Rescues Himself, Quentin Beck is a fucking creep, Rape Recovery, Slut Shaming, Tony Stark Lives, Victim Blaming, pre-Michelle/Ned/Peter, ummmmm this one gets pretty dark lads, very loosely follows the events of FFH in the first half
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25818385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollow_dweller/pseuds/hollow_dweller
Summary: Peter looks away, across the sloping lawn, to the lake. “I’m almost 18.”Tony shakes his head. “Yeah, doesn’t matter. You’re still my kid. And besides,” here his voice turns careful, a little shrewd, a lot gentle. “It’s not just about your age on paper. It’s also about experience, power- a lot of things that go beyond just how many times you’ve traveled around the sun.”Peter’s heart is thudding in his chest now, the rush of blood in his ears deafening.“Peter.” Tony’s voice is so quiet, so impossibly gentle. Peter feels like he might crumble apart under the weight of it. “You want to tell me what happened in Prague?”OrFeeling shut out by his friends on their junior class trip, Peter finds himself drawn into a fight alongside a new, strange superhero. And if that man, Mysterio, has a gaze that lingers, that makes his stomach turn and his cheeks heat and the hair on his neck stand up? It’s fine. He can handle it. He’s got this all under control.And when Mysterio shows his true colors, stealing EDITH right from under Peter’s nose? That’s fine too. He can fix his mistakes. He doesn’t need any help taking down Mysterio. And he definitely doesn’t need any help dealing with the aftermath.
Relationships: May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker, Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 22
Kudos: 96





	i waste my truth on you

**Author's Note:**

> please please heed the tags and warnings on this, and skip if it isn't your thing. there's no explicit sex between Peter and Beck but there are scenes covering what happens directly before and directly after, and there are frequent references to it. usually by Beck, which mean's they're pretty gross allusions. 
> 
> there is also explicit depiction of grooming and manipulation of a teenager by an adult who has overt sexual intent, as well as victim blaming and slut shaming (mostly internalized by Peter but also outright by Beck after he goes full darkside). this is very much a story about rape (by way of dubcon) and its aftermath/recovery. also some vomiting, panic attacks, and very mild self-harm behaviour during said panic attacks. 
> 
> please take care of yourselves while reading. ♡
> 
> title from [youth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rb37ycLHPho) by VÉRITÉ

Peter leans over his workbench, diligently soldering a final few bits of wiring in place. The work is detailed, and precise; Peter has long since entered what he considers his “focus zone”, where all the distractions of the lab have fallen away, his breathing even and deep, his senses acutely tuned to the task before him. He doesn’t often get the chance to work like this, but there are some projects that deserve his undivided attention, so for certain things- the most important things- he makes it happen. 

A trickle of sensation travels up the back of his neck, not enough to startle him, not an alert to danger, but enough to get him to pause, turning his attention outward and allowing the noise of the lab- or workshop, more accurately, given that it’s in a garage- to filter back in. 

At first, there’s nothing out of the ordinary: the whirring noises of the bots as they trundle around, the gentle hum of electricity that tells him FRIDAY is online, the buzzing of the iron spider suit as it charges. Somewhere off to the side Peter can hear the even breathing and steady heartbeat of the room’s other occupant, and- 

There. The clatter of tiny footsteps as a small body approaches him, the pattern clearly indicating she’s trying to sneak up on him- a short burst of movement, followed by a long, tense pause, and another flurry of exaggerated steps taken on tip-toe. 

Peter represses his smile, not turning around as he says, in his firmest tone: “Morgan.” 

The footsteps stop, then there’s a great gust of breath as she lets out a frustrated sigh, disgruntled that he caught her. He doesn’t turn to look, yet, but he can practically _hear_ her deflating. 

He turns off the soldering iron, placing it back on its stand. He was done, anyway, but he’s not going to tell Morgan that. He removes his headgear, placing the protective goggles back in their appropriate drawer in his bench. Finally, when she’s about to reach her limit- he can hear her shifting back and forth on her feet, impatient- he turns off the lamp that illuminates his station, and turns to face her. 

She’s exactly as he pictured her, brow furrowed in an impatient scowl, arms crossed and foot tapping. She looks so much like her father like this that Peter has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Once he’s got it under control, he crouches down in front of her, doing his best to make his voice sound stern. 

“Morgan, do you remember what we talked about, about how it’s dangerous to sneak up on me in here?”

She looks down at her feet, mulish expression not budging in the least. “But _Peter_ , I was bored, and Daddy’s asleep. And you always catch me, anyway!” 

Peter glances over to the couch that’s pushed up against the workshop’s far wall, where Tony is indeed sprawled, arm flung over his eyes, fast asleep. He was supposed to have been watching Morgan while Peter made some adjustments to his prosthesis, giving Pepper a few hours of respite while she caught up on SI work, but Peter isn’t going to begrudge him the nap. It’s been a little over eight months since the battle at the Compound, six since Tony awoke from his coma, but he still tires easily. 

Peter looks back at Morgan and sighs. “Momo, if you want my attention that’s okay, but when we’re in here you have to be careful. If _I’m_ not careful then I could hurt myself, or you, really easily. So next time just call my name, alright?”

She looks up at him from under her bangs, expression contrite. “Okay Peter.” 

He smiles, then scoops her up in his arms, hitching her up on his hip easily. “What do you say we wake Dad and go see if Mom wants lunch, huh?” 

“I want peanut butter sandwiches!”

“I think we can make that happen.”

Peter walks over to the couch and shakes Tony, as gently as he can. He stirs, arm coming down slowly, blinking groggily up at Peter. “Wha- did I fall asleep?” 

“Yep,” Peter says blithely, reaching out with the hand not occupied by holding Morgan. “A few hours of being tasked with watching your own kid and you literally pass out, wow.” 

Tony makes a rude noise at him, taking the proffered hand and letting Peter pull him to his feet. “Excuse _you_ , I’m in recovery. Who taught you to be such a jerk? I feel like I didn’t teach you to be a jerk.” 

Peter grins. “I’m a learn by observation kind of guy.” 

Tony makes a face at that, while Peter snickers. “It lunchtime?” 

Morgan nods, wriggling excitedly in Peter’s hold. “I want peanut butter sandwiches!” 

Tony kisses her on the cheek. “Then peanut butter sandwiches it is, I guess.” 

Peter gestures towards where Tony’s prosthesis is resting on the workbench, held securely in place by clamps. “You wanna reattach first, or eat first?” 

Tony shakes his head. “Let’s eat. My mouth always tastes like pennies for hours after reattaching, and I’d like to _enjoy_ my pb&j, thanks.” 

They troop back up to the lake house, parting ways in the foyer, Peter and Morgan off to the kitchen to wash up and start preparing food, Tony to the office to coax Pepper out for lunch. Conversation over lunch is easy, chatting about the games Tony and Morgan had played that morning, or about the photos May’s been sending Peter from her and Happy’s trip to the Rockies. It’s their second wedding anniversary, and the first they’ve actually celebrated in any significant way, so they’re treating it a bit like a delayed honeymoon. It’s bizarre to see Happy in cargo shorts and hiking boots, but he looks surprisingly not-grumpy in the photos, and May looks ecstatic in every selfie she sends, so Peter refrains from making too much fun of him. 

(He and Tony have put together a collage of the goofiest candids May has sent them of Happy, and are waiting until they’ve returned to make it the default screensaver for SI’s computers.)

(That part was May’s suggestion.) 

Pepper takes charge of Morgan while Tony and Peter clear up, then they head back out to the garage. Tony endures all of Peter’s pre-attachment checks with his usual ill grace, complaining loudly about Peter being the most boringly fussy 17 year old he’s ever met. 

“This technology represents over four months of collaboration between me, you, and the Princess of Wakanda,” Peter says patiently, in the same tone he used to admonish Morgan for sneaking up on him. “It's made of a quantity of vibranium that we literally cannot put value on because it doesn’t exist in this concentration anywhere outside Wakanda, with the exception of Bucky’s arm and Cap’s shield. It’s also the freaking coolest thing I’ve ever built. I’m not letting it get fried during a botched reattachment just because you have all the patience of an actual 5 year old.” 

“Oh nice, I notice that _my_ safety isn’t the concern here. Makes me feel loved.”

“Of course I’m concerned about your safety.” Peter pauses, and Tony glares, waiting. “Pepper would be upset if I accidentally electrocuted you.” 

“There it is.” 

Peter smirks at him, unrepentant, then goes about the process of getting the arm docked in the port attached to Tony’s shoulder. A couple more checks, ensuring the external clips are secured and all readings are normal, and Peter gives the signal to the nanotech to finish the attachment.

Tony clenches and unclenches his flesh hand, smacking his lips unhappily. “Ack- yeah, see, pennies.” He makes to stand. “Glad that’s over wi-” 

“Nice try,” Peter says, pressing his hand down on Tony’s flesh shoulder, keeping him seated. He doesn’t look away from the readings FRIDAY’s projecting in the air above the workbench. Everything looks normal, but- “Hey, you wanna rotate the shoulder a bit? Electrical readings are a little off, I worry about range of motion-”

“I’m not doing this again today,” Tony says flatly, doing as Peter asked. “I refuse.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Peter says absently. “This is the last time you have to do this for at least 4 weeks, you can survive a little fine-tuning.” 

“Sometimes I think back on the choices that brought me here, enduring flagrant disrespect in my own home from my own protégé, and I wonder: what did I do to deserve this?” 

Peter eyes the readout- there it goes, the levels are stabilizing nicely. “You want alphabetical or chronological? FRIDAY pull up-” 

Tony hisses and pushes at Peter’s face with his free hand. Peter smiles, then gestures to close down the display. “Okay, you’re free to go.” 

Tony stands, rolls his shoulders, stretches his arms above his head, then cracks the knuckles on his flesh hand- probably just to make Peter wince, which he does. “Nice work, kid. Feels perfect.” 

Peter ducks his head, trying to hide his pleased smile. “Yeah, well. Should we go rescue Pepper?” 

“In a minute; I have something for you.” 

Tony walks over to his own section of the workshop, fidgeting for a moment with some of the random scraps of tech littering the space, before pulling out a small wooden case from one of the drawers. Then he turns toward Peter, the expression on his face surprisingly serious. 

Unconsciously, Peter straightens up. 

“I wasn’t sure I was going to do this- Fury and I had this whole stupid conversation about it, did you know he's a Shakespeare kinda guy? I wouldn’t have pegged him for it. But I figured- I have it, and who better than you, right?” 

“Who better than me for… what, exactly?” Tony’s nervous about whatever’s happening, and Peter can feel an answering stir of anxiety in his chest. 

“It’s- I didn’t want to put this on you, not now. But I want you to be safe, Pete, and this is the best way I know how.” Tony holds out the case, offering it to Peter. Tentatively he takes it, opening it carefully to reveal- 

A pair of glasses, clearly the same smart-tech style that Tony wears. 

“Put them on and say ‘EDITH’.” 

Peter does. Immediately a HUD pops up, accompanied by the faint, distinctive hum of an AI coming online. A slightly mechanical voice says, “Stand by for retinal and biometric scan." A pause, data flashing across the HUD. Then: "Retinal and biometric scan completed. Hello Peter.” 

“Woah.” 

Tony reaches out and taps the side of the glasses. “Thanks honey, you can go back to sleep. I’ll take the introductions from here.” 

The HUD shuts down, and Peter looks at Tony, blinking. 

Tony sighs. “This is EDITH. She’s an augmented reality, security, and defense system. She has access to the entire Stark Industries global security network, including defense satellites, backdoors to major telecommunications networks- there’s a whole list of things, she can run you through it later.”

Backdoors to- Peter’s stomach swoops, his anxiety ratcheting up a notch. “Um, not that this isn’t super cool, but uh- what?” 

Tony’s metal hand lands on Peter’s shoulder. “I know you’re planning for this trip to be just a normal, low-key vacation with your friends, and I hope that’s what it ends up being. But in case it isn’t, in case something happens, I want you to have every tool at your disposal to protect yourself. The world is still- it hasn’t been that long, and not everything’s as stable as it sometimes looks.” 

Peter nods, turning Tony’s words over in his head. May had said something similar, anxious that she wasn’t going to return to New York before Peter left for his class trip, making him swear he’d bring his flexicloth spider-suit along, just in case. It makes sense, to an extent; Peter’s been dealing with varying degrees of slightly overbearing protectiveness from all the adults in his life, ever since he… got back. This is just the same impulse that makes May text him ten times a day when they’re apart, or Happy insist- grumpily, but ignoring Peter’s objections- on driving him to and from school, or Pepper duck her head into his room every night when he stays over, making sure he’s settled in. 

Giving him access to what sounds like some kind of freaky HAL 9000-esque system, but made global, seems kind of like overkill, but. This is Tony, so. 

Still, it’s a huge responsibility, and that’s- a lot, to deal with right now. “Okay… but do you really want to give this to- to me? That seems like it could go really wrong, really fast, if the wrong person got their hands on it, or I mess up, or-.” 

Tony smiles, eyes crinkling fondly at the corners. “It’s just a precaution, and you’ve got your head on straight, I know you’ll use her wisely.” He squeezes Peter’s shoulder, gently. “There’s no one I trust more with this than you, kid.” 

Peter removes the glasses, folding them up carefully while swallowing down the nervous objections that bubble up in his throat. Tony’s confidence in him helps, some, but- 

Tony gives his shoulder another comforting squeeze, seeming to read Peter’s doubts on his face. “Besides, I’m always here for you, alright? EDITH’s your ace in the hole, but I’m still your first call, got it?” 

That makes Peter smile, and he tucks the glasses away in his shirt pocket. “Got it.”

* * *

Tony doesn’t come along to drop Peter off at the airport. 

He wants to, Peter can tell, and his parting hug is just a shade tighter, held slightly longer, than normal. But they’d talked about it, and decided that Pepper should drop him off while Tony and Morgan remain at the lake house. 

It’s not that Pepper Potts isn’t a recognizable figure- she absolutely is, which is why she won’t be accompanying Peter into the terminal- but after everything that’s happened, Tony is on another level. He’s avoided being seen out in public since he woke up, and there had been a lengthy, serious discussion once he had if they should even tell the public. 

They’d ended up deciding to let people know, Pepper delivering the news in a short press conference, no questions permitted, but it had been a close run thing. 

Iron Man is officially retired now, off the grid, and if everyone in his life has any say in it, he’s going to stay that way. It’s too risky for him to come to as populated a place as JFK International, which he understands- he just doesn’t like it. 

So Tony stays behind- Rhodey just happening to show up right around the time Peter has to leave, ruffling his hair in farewell with a fond _be good, kid_ , and throwing his arm around a disgruntled-looking Tony’s shoulders. Extricating Peter from Morgan is a trickier affair, and at the end of it Peter has to agree to video call her at _least_ once a day before she’ll stop crying. 

“Between her and May I’m going to spend half my vacation on the phone,” Peter grumbles at Pepper, settling into the passenger seat. Pepper scoffs, kindly not saying anything while Peter scrubs at his damp cheeks.

When they arrive at the airport, Pepper sees him off with a smile and a surprisingly crushing hug of her own, reminding him of the promise he’d made to call- purely for Morgan’s benefit, of course. Peter promises her he will, gives her a last hug, and then heads off, stomach flipping over in nervous anticipation. It’s his first time on an airplane, first time going anywhere that isn’t New York- with one, uh, major exception. 

More importantly, he’ll get to do it with Ned and MJ at his side. 

Things have been... weird, since everyone came back. Of course, the world was readjusting, frantically scrambling to accommodate for the doubling of the population. There had been contingencies, global and interplanetary efforts driven by the Avengers and their allies, but resourcing was still an issue and things were… messy. May worked for Stark Industries now, as the head of their Social Responsibility and Outreach division, and she, Happy, and Pepper had all been working overtime in the intervening months, doing what they could to use SI’s resources to help the world recover. 

So in the face of all that, it had largely fallen to Peter to look after Morgan, and Tony, once he’d woken, and he’d ended up living at the lake house full time for the first three months after the battle. May and Happy apparently spent so much time there that they had their own private suite, and Peter had been provided a suspiciously well-furnished guest room, so they hadn’t had any objections to moving out of the city temporarily and working remotely. 

Initially, schools had been offering classes online, to account for the suddenly much larger class sizes overwhelming the education system, so that’s what Peter had done. But that option was quickly phased out, at least in New York- something about wanting to get all students back to a new normal, which was bullshit- and Peter had been obligated to either move back into the city during the week for school, or drop out and re-enroll somewhere else that still offered online options. 

To Peter’s chagrin, none of the adults in his life had been in favor of the latter plan- Midtown Tech was a feeder school for MIT, and although that wasn’t where Peter was sure he wanted to go, it is where both May and Tony wanted him to go, so. Back to school he went, spending weekdays in the city and weekends out at the lake house. 

It wasn't necessarily _bad_ , being back in New York- he got to spend time with Ned and MJ, in person instead of just via text or video chat, and he got to be Spider-Man again, something that he had missed almost as fiercely as he missed his friends. It’s just that being back in the world meant that he could no longer ignore how _different_ it was. 

It’s not like there hadn’t been evidence of that out at the lake. Tony’s scars, the wedding ring on May’s finger, _Morgan_ \- they were all constant reminders that the Earth Peter had come back to was a very different one than the one he’d left. But out there, isolated from the rest of the world, focusing on keeping his family happy and healthy as he can, it’s almost like he can pretend he was in a coma or something for five years. That the only person that was hurt by what happened was him. 

In New York, that’s a fantasy that’s impossible to hold onto. Even with everything that SI and other organizations are doing, there are still people who came back to a world where their spouses had remarried, their homes had been destroyed, their jobs no longer existed. That kind of displacement meant a corresponding increase in crime, not all of it being the kind that Peter finds himself able to fight. Of course he still stops the violent stuff, the stuff that targets people who can’t fight back, who are vulnerable, but the kid stealing groceries from the local Walmart, or the family of squatters trespassing in the abandoned building? Peter’s not going to go after people who are just trying to survive, who aren’t hurting anyone. 

And he’s not about to stand by and let other people do that either. 

It means that more often than not, when Peter’s out there, he’s keeping as much of an eye on the cops as he is the criminals. He has no compunctions about webbing someone up when they start getting violent, regardless of whether or not they’re wearing a uniform. It also means that he becomes _persona non grata_ with the NYPD, and public opinion on Spider-Man and his activities becomes the most polarized it’s ever been. 

He has many, _many_ , conversations- with May, with Tony, with Pepper, and even Happy- as they try to convince him to let the corruption be dealt with via the appropriate channels. And sure, he knows that there are checks in place, and that things _are_ getting better as time passes, and the incidents are getting fewer and farther between. But as he tells them, again and again, he isn’t going to let people get hurt, not when he can do something about it. 

(“None of these people would even be in this position if we had stopped Thanos on Titan!” Peter remembers yelling at Tony, hours into yet another frustrating, pointless argument. “So it’s my responsibility to help them, okay? Why don’t you _get_ that?”)

(He’d stormed out of the house, ignoring the heavy spike of guilt that had flooded him at the look on Tony’s face. They had barely spoken for the rest of Peter’s visit, but by the time he’d returned the weekend following, Tony had seemed determined to act as if the argument had never happened. Nobody had brought the topic up since, but from the way he’ll sometimes catch Tony looking at him, brow furrowed, something like despair lingering in his eyes, he can tell that it hasn’t been forgotten.) 

So being back in New York was a trial that left him exhausted and longing for the weekend, and feeling guilty about his desire to escape when there were so many people who didn’t have that luxury. He hadn’t initially even intended to go on this class trip, feeling that a month was entirely too long to be away, but May and Tony had conspired to get him signed up behind his back, and by the time he’d found out, they’d already paid. So despite his guilt, his protests that he’d be shirking his obligation to the city, he’s going. 

And there is a small, selfish part of him that can’t help but be glad for it. He’s barely spent any time with his friends since he moved back to the city, outside of class- too busy with patrols, and schoolwork, and every weekend away at the lake. And sure, there’s their group chat, and hanging out at lunch, and video calling, but even those have been dwindling in frequency as time has passed, and Peter knows that a lot of that is on him. He hasn’t exactly had the bandwidth to be the best of friends to them, recently. 

Ned knows he’s Spider-Man, which helps him be more forgiving when Peter bails on plans in favor of patrol, and why he’s so insistent on leaving every weekend to “visit family”. But that doesn’t exactly stop it from sucking for him, when Peter ditches out on him. MJ doesn’t know about Spider-Man at all, and Peter knows she thinks he’s the world’s biggest flake- which, valid excuses or not, he kind of is. 

He wants to take this time to make it up to them, and this trip is the perfect opportunity. He even has a plan.

* * *

His plan goes off the rails before the plane has even taken off. 

Initially he’s seated with Ned, which is perfect, but MJ is assigned a seat further back on the plane, next to Betty. That’s not ideal- Peter picked up a three-way audio splitter just for this, and had intended for them all to sit together, hopefully watch a few movies, or YouTube videos, something fun and low-key that they can all enjoy together. 

He cranes his neck to look back at where MJ is sitting, and says, “Hey, you think we could find a way to get MJ to sit up here, with us?” 

He looks back at Ned, then, and finds that Ned is watching him with a faint frown. “You- uh, want to sit with MJ?” 

Peter nods. “Well, yeah dude. I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve really hung out with her- or either of you, really, so I thought-” 

Ned cuts him off, his face suddenly gone oddly, unnervingly blank. “Right, got it. Wait here.” 

Peter frowns. “Wait, got what? Ned-” But Ned is gone, making his way down the aisle towards where Betty and MJ are sitting. 

It becomes almost immediately apparent to Peter that Ned has completely misunderstood him, and also that he should never allow Ned to come up with excuses on his own. He listens with dawning horror as Ned talks about allergies, and needing a seat change, and Mr. Harrison interjecting at the mention of possible illness in one of his students.

The end result is that Peter gets to spend the nine hour plane ride watching MJ cozy up with Brad Davis, and Ned with Betty Brant, while Mr. Harrison’s drool slowly soaks through the fabric of his t-shirt. 

He tries to track Ned down in the terminal, when they land, but when he does it’s only to find out that somehow, incomprehensibly, Ned and Betty are dating now. 

“I- what?” Peter says, a little dumbfounded. 

“Yep,” Ned says, with a decisive little smack of his lips on the _‘p’_. There’s something… almost challenging, in the way he looks at Peter. “So I’ve got Betty, now, and you- you can spend time with MJ.” 

Peter shakes his head a little. “That’s not-” But Betty is calling Ned away, and without a backward glance, Ned’s off. 

Peter tries not to stare at him, or MJ, throughout the boat trip to the hotel, with middling success. He catches both of them looking back, occasionally, but mostly Ned seems intent on Betty, and MJ is absorbed with the sights of the city, making easy conversation with Brad as they float along. 

Peter’s self-aware enough to know that jealousy is seriously uncool, but he can’t help the hot little flare of it that ignites in his stomach regardless. 

The thing is, before everything, the three of them had gotten to a place where he’d thought, maybe… Well, there had been _something_ brewing between them, in the hours-long conversations, the movie nights where they’d curled up together under a blanket on the couch, the decathlon study sessions in Peter’s living room that always resulted in May waggling her eyebrows at him as soon as the other two had left for the evening. And nothing’s been the same since they came back, and he knows that’s his fault, but he’d kind of thought maybe this trip would be the opportunity to fix it, to get back some of what they’d had before. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that the other two might not want to. 

He looks down at his hands, the smell of motor oil and saltwater sharp to his sensitive nose, and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. _Don’t be self-absorbed,_ he tells himself sternly. _They don’t owe you anything._

It’s true, of course. But it doesn’t exactly make him feel better.

* * *

Because this is just the way Peter’s life goes, they get attacked by a water monster almost as soon as they get to Venice.

Peter ends up not being able to do much- turns out fighting a living mass of water is a little difficult when all you’ve got on your side is some webs and acrobatics- but he’s able to get by-standers out of the way and keep a giant bell-tower from crushing his classmates, so he’ll take what he can get. The monster is defeated by a weird wizard dude, who is all anyone is talking about by the time Peter makes his way back to the hotel. 

His head is aching, after bashing it against the bell- twice- and his nerves feel fried, prickling under his skin. Maybe it’s just that the monster was unanticipated, that he was unprepared to be thrown into another fight in the middle of the day, while on vacation, but he feels vaguely disoriented. The monster had registered in his senses, not like a solid mass, but more like a swarm of wasps, buzzing and surrounding him on all sides. It’s probably something to do with the magic- and it has to be magic, because Peter can’t think of what else might be able to create a creature such as that- but the overload on his senses leaves him feeling a little wrung-out, a little raw. He wants to fall into bed and sleep for a week. 

But first, he thinks tiredly, pulling out his vibrating phone and hitting accept, he has to deal with Tony. 

“Kid, what the hell was that?” 

“I don’t know, Buzzfeed’s pretty sure it’s aliens, though.” 

“Peter.”

Peter sighs, shifts further down the hall, away from the common room where his classmates are congregated, speculating wildly about the attack. “I _actually_ don’t know, Tony. It just- showed up out of nowhere.” 

“And the guy? In the Party City-brand Thor costume?” 

“I don’t know that, either. He just showed up, beat the bad guy, and left.” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hey, aren’t you the one who, I dunno, led a team of superheroes for years? You’re telling me there’s nobody in your Rolodex who you can ask about who the hell this guy is?” 

Tony doesn’t respond. 

Peter straightens up, hand clenching reflexively around the phone. “...Tony?” 

“Okay, so here’s the thing you need to keep in mind: I really thought I was saving you a headache.”

Peter groans, then slumps so he’s leaning against a wall. “What’d you do?” 

“Nick Fury… may have been trying to reach you, the last few days.” 

Peter closes his eyes and thumps his head once, against the wall. He knows where this is going, but says, “I don’t have any missed calls on my phone.” 

“...I may have been blocking them from going through.” 

“Aw, come on, Tony!” 

“Hey, I was just looking out for you! Fury had no business dragging you into danger- you’re on vacation!” 

“Yeah, that’s a nice thought, except that the danger found me anyway!” 

“To be fair to me, I had no idea this was the ‘following my kid to Europe’ kind of danger.” 

Peter lets out a long, controlled breath through his nose. “You should have let me deal with him myself, Tony. I could have told him to back off, and at least I’d’ve had some warning about what was happening.” 

Tony’s voice is skeptical. “Would you have told him to back off, though? Really?” 

“I don’t know, but that’s still my choice! You don’t get to just make those decisions for me.”

Tony sighs. “I know, kid. I was just… I didn’t want you to have to deal with that.” 

Peter rubs his forehead, then squeezes his eyes shut, tightly. “Yeah, I know. Look, I need to get some sleep- we’re cutting Venice short because of the whole water monster thing, so we’re off to Paris first thing.” 

“Peter…”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

“...goodnight, bud.” 

Peter hangs up, then makes his way back down the hall towards where his classmates are gathered, having a fairly spirited debate as to whether Spider-Man could’ve taken down the water monster. The only one solidly on Spidey’s side in that one is Flash, which- yeah, no, not even going there. 

MJ tries to catch his eye as he walks past her, but he just smiles at her and jerks his head upwards, to indicate that he’s heading to his room. 

Ned doesn’t look around from where he’s sitting at his computer, Betty’s hand resting on his shoulder. 

When Peter gets to his room, he shuts his door and leans against it, closing his eyes. God, he hopes that Ned will be staying downstairs a little longer- he just needs a few minutes...

A buzzing starts up, at the base of his neck. The sound of another heartbeat, loud in the quiet of the room, filters into his ears. 

...alone. 

He taps his wrists together to activate his webshooters, then paces forward cautiously. As he leaves the entrance-way and walks into the room proper, he cranes his neck, trying to determine where the other person is standing. There’s a shifting noise to his right, the faint creaking of leather, and Peter whirls around, wrist coming up, to point directly at- 

Nick Fury, sitting casually in the room’s lone armchair, one leg crossed over the other, gun in hand. 

“You’re a very difficult person to contact, Spider-Man,” he says.

* * *

Later, in SHIELD’s underground base, shaking Mysterio’s- or Quentin Beck’s- hand, Peter feels a frisson of… something, run through his body. Mr. Beck’s gaze is intense as it meets his, and something in it makes the hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand on end. 

“You handled yourself well out there today,” Mr. Beck says. “I saw what you did with the tower.” 

And, okay. Peter’s not blind. Mr. Beck is tall, handsome, and looking at Peter so intently- It’s impossible to tamp down on the heat that creeps up his neck at the compliment, the little thrill of satisfaction that comes from being recognized as talented by another hero. 

A hero from a whole other _world_ , no less. 

Peter definitely flushes at the second compliment, praising his intelligence, and to his mortification Mr. Beck seems to catch it. His eyes scan Peter’s face, lingering briefly on his cheeks, a gleam of something- curiosity, maybe- reflecting in them. Peter catches more of those glances throughout the ensuing conversation, thoughtful, maybe even a little calculating. He isn’t quite sure what to make of it, so he tries to focus on the explanation about the monsters- elementals- and how they’d destroyed Mr. Beck’s Earth, how they might do the same thing to this Earth as well, if someone doesn’t stop them. 

When Fury says that they need his help, Peter’s first, reflexive impulse is to accept. Of course it is- he’s seen a little of what these elementals can do, and with the weight of Mr. Beck’s words heavy in the air, detailing his losses, Peter’s instinct is always, always going to be to do whatever he can to protect people. 

The only thing that stops him is the thought of what May and Tony would say. 

He could probably convince them this is the right thing to do- they both know him well enough to know that it’s just not in his blood to stand back when people are in danger. They also know what happens when they try to _stop_ him from helping people- Peter’s always taken an “ask forgiveness, not permission” approach to superheroing, usually to his own detriment, because if his skin is on the line then that at least means someone else’s isn’t. 

So yeah, an acceptance is on the tip of his tongue- except. 

Tony and May have been so incredibly freaked out by this trip, yet so insistent that he take it. Enough that they’d gone behind his back to set it up, that Tony had given him access to this massive- and frankly, probably illegal- reconnaissance and defense system, that he’d completely invaded his privacy by screening his calls without his knowledge.

And it’s not like Peter _likes_ any of that- he’s not a child, and he hates having them meddling in his life like this- but he gets it. They’d lived five years without him; it makes sense that the first time he spent any length of time away from them after coming back, they’d kind of… not handle it well. And the last thing he wants to do is put them under more stress. 

So he insists that his Aunt won’t like it, and that Spider-Man being seen in Europe will completely blow the lid on his identity- both of which are true, very valid objections- and pushes down the guilt that rises in him at refusing. The truth is, he _isn’t_ the hero that’s best equipped to help with this. His relative uselessness during the fight with the water elemental- relegated to damage control- is plenty proof of that. 

They’re better off finding someone else. 

He’s surprised that Fury acquiesces so easily, but he tries not to get too caught up in it. There’s no point in examining Fury’s motivations too closely when the end result is what Peter was after, anyway. 

He’s making his way out of the base- Fury had made no indication that he’d be taking Peter back to his hotel by boat, so webslinging it is, he guesses- when he hears footsteps behind him. 

He turns to see Mr. Beck, striding up the hall towards him, cloak billowing impressively as he walks. 

“Mr. Beck?” Peter asks, cautiously. 

He comes to a stop a few paces away from Peter, smiling kindly. “Hey kid. I just wanted to say- I totally get why you couldn’t join us on this mission, so don’t feel too guilty about passing on it, alright?” 

And okay, he appreciates the sentiment, but the easy understanding from Mr. Beck only serves to make him feel guiltier. “I’m- I’m really sorry. It’s just…” 

Mr. Beck steps forward, resting a hand on one of Peter’s shoulders. His palm is warm, almost too much so, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin cloth of Peter’s suit. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” He chuckles. “I mean, it’s hard to remember sometimes, seeing you out there in the field, but you’re 17- of course you’re concerned with what your classmates or Aunt would think.” 

Peter ducks his head. “It’s not… I just don’t think I’m the best one to help out, is all. I mean, you totally had that water guy.” 

Mr. Beck scoffs a little, and when Peter looks up he’s smiling, eyes soft and fond in a way that makes Peter feel slightly warm. “I don’t entirely agree with you, kid- I think you’re selling yourself short. In fact… I’m gotta say I’m kind of sad we won’t have the chance to work together more closely.” 

Okay, now Peter’s _really_ feeling warm. Mr. Beck’s voice had pitched slightly lower, on those last few sentences, and the sound of it hooks Peter right under his navel. “Um, thanks, Mr. Beck.” 

“Call me Quentin,” he says, voice still in that lower register, hand heavy on Peter’s shoulder.

Peter pushes down the flash of nervous energy that evokes in him, trying to keep his voice steady as he replies, “Sure. See you around, Quentin.” 

“I hope so, Peter.” Quentin replies, finally taking his hand off Peter’s shoulder and stepping away. 

Peter shoots him a final smile, then turns to continue down the hallway, fighting the urge to glance behind him as he goes.

* * *

Ned is quiet, while they’re packing up the next morning. 

Peter keeps sneaking him glances as they get ready. Ned isn’t usually this quiet, and the silence is unnerving to Peter. Finally, as they’re finishing up the last of their ablutions- Peter sitting on his bed, dragging a comb through his wet curls, Ned at the sink, carefully shaving the small amount of overnight stubble he gets- Ned speaks. 

“I uh, waited up for you last night.” 

Peter glances up at him, quickly, then back down, fiddling with the comb in his hands. “Yeah, sorry dude. I… wanted some fresh air.” 

“In the middle of the night?” Ned sounds skeptical. 

Peter hesitates. He’s not sure why he doesn’t just tell Ned- he knows he’s Spider-Man, and it’s not like “Nick Fury kidnapped me” is actually all that hard to believe, despite it being… hard to believe. 

“Were you- were you hanging out with MJ?” Ned’s tone is careful, controlled. 

Peter looks up, startled. “What? No. I- I went webslinging, to clear my mind. That’s why I was out so long, I lost track of time.” 

He stands, walking over so he’s hovering awkwardly behind Ned. He tries to catch his eye in the reflection, but Ned looks down, to where he’s washing his razor off in the sink. “Dude, about MJ. I think-” 

Ned opens the cap on his aftershave, hands shaking a little, spilling it, and Peter is suddenly cut off, choking as the sharp scent of it fills the air. 

He backs up, coughing, covering his nose- the aftershave must have peppermint in it. Ever since the spider bite, Peter can’t stand the smell. “Dude- what is that?” 

Ned pats a little on, apparently not noticing the way Peter gags. “It’s a gift from Betty- she bought it for me in Venice.” Then he frowns, finally turning to look at Peter. “Dude, are you okay?” 

Peter nods, then grabs his luggage from where he stacked it by the door. “Yeah- just my senses, I wasn’t prepared for how strong it was. I’ll see you down at the bus.” 

He turns tail and flees, thinking unfair, uncharitable thoughts about Betty Brant as he goes.

* * *

He discovers, once he gets out onto the street, that he really, really should have questioned it when Fury had agreed so easily to Peter’s rejection. 

_Upgraded, free trip extension to fucking Prague my ass,_ Peter fumes, throwing himself into a seat near the back of the bus. Ned sits with Betty, of course, and although MJ scans the bus as she boards- looking for him, a selfish part of him hopes- Brad catches her as she walks by, offering her the seat next to him with a smile. MJ darts another glance up, this time definitely meeting Peter’s eyes, but she just smiles apologetically and takes the seat offered to her. 

Peter spends most of the drive looking out the window, headphones on and music blaring, studiously ignoring the snatches of conversation, giggles and laughter from his friends and their seatmates, that his super-hearing still manages to pick up. 

When they arrive at the rest stop, Dmitri, the SHIELD agent driving them, stops him with a hand on his chest as Peter’s getting off the bus. Peter glances up at him, confused, then turns to look when he gestures with a grunt. One of the outbuildings has a door that’s ajar, and when Peter looks he can see a flash of movement from within the doorway. He looks back at Dmitri, who only glares, nodding again in the direction of the outbuilding. 

_Okay,_ Peter thinks, a little grumpy. _Guess I’m just going wherever they tell me, now, no explanations granted. Sit, Spidey. Fetch, Spidey. Love that for me._

Still, he trudges toward the building, glancing around before he enters to make sure none of his classmates are paying attention to him. When he steps through the door, blinking to adjust to the much dimmer interior. After a moment, the figure in the room resolves into a familiar face, and Peter’s heart seems to stutter in his chest. 

“Quentin!” Peter says, taking a few short steps into the room, then stopping abruptly. “Wh- what are you doing here?” 

Quentin is standing next to a pool table, a black bundle in his hands, wearing civilian clothes. Nothing fancy, or flashy- dark jeans and a brown jacket over a white t-shirt- but the casual look is a good one on him, the shirt tight enough across the chest that Peter can tell his body is lean and well-muscled. His mouth goes slightly dry and his heart rate picks up in his ears. 

“Peter! Hey, come in. You might want to close the door behind you. And-” he pauses, eyes looking Peter over, slowly scanning him from foot to crown, “you should lock it, too.” 

Peter does, trying to take the moment the task affords him to get himself under control. _It’s just Quentin_ , he tells himself sternly. _It’s just some guy. Another hero, just like you._

He turns back toward Quentin and walks further into the room, stopping a few paces away from him. This close, he has to tilt his head up, slightly, to meet Quentin’s eyes, and he does, eyebrows raised quizzically. 

“I want to say I’m sorry for all this,” Quentin starts, voice apologetic. “I argued against including you- not that I didn’t want you onboard, not at all. I just knew you didn’t want this, so strong-arming you into it anyway was… not cool. Fury overruled me, I’m afraid.”

Peter feels a surge of affection, startling to him in its intensity, and smiles widely up at Quentin. “Thanks, that- means a lot. I know how Fury is, though. It’s not your fault.” 

“Still,” Quentin says, with a wry twist of his mouth. “I admit I was... selfishly glad you’d be joining us again. It’s good to see you, Peter.”

Peter has to look away at that, briefly. It’s hard to pinpoint how Quentin’s attention makes him feel- he’s pleased, flattered by how much Quentin seems to enjoy his company, so soon after meeting him. But it makes him nervous, too, twisting low in his gut, for reasons he can’t quite name.

He clears his throat, forcing himself to look up at Quentin again. “Me, uh, me too. But- why are you _here_ -here?” 

Quentin smiles. “Oh- you told Fury that Spider-Man couldn’t be seen in Europe, so they made you a suit.” He lifts the bundle in his hands, demonstrating, then sets it aside. He takes a step closer to Peter. “And I offered to bring it to you. It’s good to… get out in the world, a bit. Again.” 

Peter swallows, and thinks he must be imagining the way Quentin's gaze follows the bobbing of his throat. “Is it a lot like your earth?”

“Some of it, yeah.” Suddenly, he reaches out and smooths a thumb along the collar of Peter’s shirt, flattening it. “Other things are… new, but good.” 

Quentin’s fingers trail down, barely skimming over the fabric of Peter’s shirt. They come to rest an inch or so above Peter’s shirt pocket, where the EDITH glasses are tucked away. “Nice glasses- not really your style though, I thought.” 

Peter blinks, trying to think past the fact that Quentin is touching him, light pressure of fingertips on his chest suddenly drawing all his focus. “Uh… yeah. I mean, no, they’re not, really.” 

He shifts a little on his feet, not sure if he should draw away. It feels- weird, to talk to Quentin about this. He feels so far removed from the way he feels when he's back home, every encounter with Quentin feeling like something from a dream, a world away from the person he is in his regular life. Like being Spider-Man, but more exhilarating, more frightening. 

The Peter standing in this room is not the same Peter who had stood Tony’s workshop, only days ago, and he doesn't like the way the memory settles in his head when he talks about it now. Like crossing wires that aren’t meant to be crossed, one misstep away from electrocution. 

“They’re um, actually a gift from Tony. Uh, Tony Stark? He’s, like, another hero in this world. The glasses give me access to- some tech that can help me, if something goes wrong.” 

Quentin smiles, but there’s something... remote, in his gaze. “Ah, yes, Tony Stark. Fury mentioned him. He’s your benefactor, right? I guess so, if he set you up with an electronic babysitter.” 

Peter frowns, and shifts back on his heels, pulling away from the touch, finally. “It's not- he just worries.” 

Quentin’s eyes widen. He lays a hand on Peter's bicep and squeezes. “Oh no- Peter, I’m sorry. I just meant that- well, after seeing the way you handled yourself out there yesterday, it’s hard to believe you need any extra help.” 

That soothes the sting, mostly, and Peter smiles a little stiffly. “It’s okay, I know you didn’t- mean anything by it.” 

Quentin nods, shifting even closer to Peter, close enough that Peter can feel the heat radiating off his body. “Still, you were pretty incredible out there. Clearly, since Fury pulled all this just to get you back on the team.” 

“Yeah, lucky me, huh.” He tries to make the objection sound disgruntled, but with Quentin so close, it just comes out as faint. 

"Lucky me, I think," Quentin says, voice soft and pleased in a way that runs all the way down Peter's back, evoking a shiver. 

Quentin hasn't removed his hand from Peter's arm yet, and he shifts a little closer, rubbing lightly, up to his shoulder, down to his elbow. 

"Cold?" he asks, voice falling to a lower register, a rumble in his chest that makes Peter's cheeks flood with warmth. 

"N-no," he whispers, mortified by the way his voice shakes. 

Quentin hums, eyes flickering down to- to Peter's mouth. “Well, you should… try on the suit, I think. To make sure it fits.” 

Air catches in Peter’s throat. He opens his mouth- to say what, he doesn’t know- but suddenly someone is pounding at the door. 

Peter springs back- literally springs, landing farther away from Quentin than a normal human would- twisting to look towards the door, where Mr. Harrington’s voice filters in. 

“Any students in there? Midtown High? Time to get back on the bus- I wouldn’t want to be explaining to your parents that I lost you in the Alps, ha!” 

Peter shakes his head, trying to clear it, then looks back at Quentin. He’s blinking, a little, looking startled at the interruption. Peter ducks his head and walks back over, picking up the suit and sliding it into his backpack. Once he’s done, he takes a deep, fortifying breath, and looks up at Quentin. 

“I guess I should, uh, go,” he says, smiling tightly. 

Quentin nods, eyes searching Peter’s face. Whatever he finds there makes him smile. “See you in Prague, kid.”

* * *

“That’s great that you got an upgrade,” May says, voice echoing down the line. “I hear Prague is lovely.” 

Peter hums noncommittally, changing into his sleep clothes. He’d had an extremely tense debriefing with Fury, upon arriving at the hotel, wherein Fury had made snide comments about Peter’s lack of dedication to the cause and Quentin had refused to meet his eyes. He'd spent the whole thing doing his best not to cry, frustrated by Fury's condescension and aching with confusion at Quentin's disinterest. 

Now he’s back at the hotel, trying to catch a few hours of sleep before nightfall, the rest of his class off exploring the daytime festivities. He’s managed to secure- with EDITH’s help- opera tickets to keep the class inside and away from danger during the time the final monster is supposed to show. None of them are ecstatic about ditching the carnival for the _opera_ , of all things, but Peter doesn’t really care how happy they are about it as long as they’re _away,_ safe from harm. 

He walks over to the windows, making sure his curtains are tugged closed- they’re not thick enough to completely block out the sun, but they’re close enough. As he does, he says, “Yeah, there’s this cool carnival thing happening. I’m bagged from the bus ride though, so I’m going to try to catch a nap here, soon.”

He settles cross legged on the bed, picking up his phone and turning on the video feature. Immediately May’s smiling face fills the screen, and he relaxes a bit just looking at her. 

“You do seem tired, sweetheart. Have you been getting enough sleep?” 

“Course not,” he deflects. “I’m on vacation, with my friends, in _Europe_. We’re not sleeping.” 

She snorts. “Right, because you and Ned and MJ have always been _such_ party animals.” 

His face must do something at the mention of his friends’ names, because May frowns, concern evident on her face. “Are you okay, Peter?” 

He nods, smiling tightly. “Like you said, just tired.” 

“Sure,” she agrees, slowly. She’s quiet a moment longer, then she says, a little hesitant: “So… you’ve been dodging Tony’s calls, huh?”. 

Peter sighs. “I know it’s not cool, it’s just…” 

“Yeah, I get it.” She smiles fondly at him. “If it makes you feel better, Pepper and I both had words with him about those little inconvenient concepts called “boundaries” and “privacy”.” 

Peter nods. “I get that he means well…” 

May snorts again. “Tony’s tombstone is going to read “He meant well”, I swear.” 

That startles a laugh out of Peter, even as he grimaces. “Come on May, too soon.” 

“Sorry kiddo.”

Peter shakes his head at her. “I’ll talk to him after- after Prague. I just need a couple days to cool off.” 

“Okay, so long as you know that ghosting is not the mature, adult way to deal with conflict, FYI.” 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Thanks, tips.” 

“Bah, I don’t understand your strange Gen Z speak.” 

“Alright grandmother, I’ll let you go, then.” 

She laughs. “You little jerk. I love you.”

“Love you too.” 

He hangs up, trying to hold on to the warm, safe feeling that speaking to May always leaves him with, like being wrapped in a fluffy blanket. Slowly but surely, that, and the exhaustion that’s been dogging him since Venice, since the plane ride, maybe, drag him into sleep.

* * *

Hours later, he’s walking the crowded streets of Prague, following his disgruntled classmates to the opera house. MJ is walking next to him, Brad a few paces ahead, with some of their other classmates. He’s a little surprised, actually, but as soon as he’d shown up to meet the group- the last one to arrive, as usual, still a little sleep rumpled and clothes creased from being in his luggage- she’d doubled back to walk with him. 

“So,” she says, after a moment. “Haven’t seen you around, much.”

He looks at her out of the corner of his eye. “Yeah, I… sorry. It’s been a weird vacation, so far.” 

She snorts. “What, you mean with all the nature literally trying to kill us, that kind of weird?” 

He smiles, ducking his head. “Actually, I meant Mr. Harrison’s whole,” he gestures vaguely toward their teacher, “everything, but if you’re freaked out by the monster then I guess that’s reasonable.” 

He can see her grin, out of the corner of his eye, and she elbows him in the side. Ahead of them, Betty lets out a loud laugh, Ned slinging his arm around her waist, beaming. 

“Speaking of weird…” MJ mutters. Peter glances at her, and she quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, looking away. “That one kind of came out of nowhere.”

“You know, we spent a lot of time together this year, especially since you were… so busy.” Peter flinches, but MJ continues, not lingering on the point. “And I guess I never really thought about it, but if I had, I wouldn’t have pegged Betty as his type.” 

Peter looks at her. She’s looking at Ned and Betty, a little wrinkle forming in her forehead as she does. 

_Oh_ , he thinks faintly, watching MJ watch Ned. _Okay then._

Neither of them has much to say, after that.

* * *

Peter ends up at a bar, after the fight. 

He’s with Quentin, both of them still mostly in their suits- Peter has taken off his mask, Quentin’s got his cloak thrown over the bar stool next to him- and it’s garnering them some stares from the bar’s other patrons. Or at least, that’s why Peter thinks people are so interested in them- he can’t think what else it might be. 

The lingering rush from the fight still fizzles under Peter’s skin, a constant itch-like wave of sensation that’s got him on-edge. He hadn’t anticipated seeing his friends, who he’d worked so hard to keep out of harm’s way, end up thrust into the middle of the action- Ned and Betty stuck on the Ferris wheel, MJ- or at least, he thinks it was MJ- immersed in the crowd. 

And then the way Quentin had thrown himself at the monster, how still he’d been, lying on the ground- It was like being thrown back in time, all those months ago, where the heartbeat he’d been straining to hear had just _stopped_ , like a clock that broke just a second before it was supposed to tip over into a new hour. 

And thankfully that hadn’t been the case- either time- but the memory of it still prickles in the back of his mind. He sips the lemonade Quentin bought him- laughing a little disbelievingly when Peter had insisted he wasn’t 21, yet- and focuses on the steady thud of Quentin’s pulse. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

Peter blinks up at Quentin, startled out of his thoughts, and the answer falls out of his mouth before he can stop it: “Your heartbeat.” 

Quentin raises both his brows at him, mouth thinning in an obvious attempt to hold back a laugh, as Peter flushes in mortification. “Sorry- I just mean. It’s this thing I do, sometimes, after fights, to uh- calm down? Listening to someone’s heartbeat, I mean, oh god that sounds so creepy.” He buries his face in his hands as Quentin finally gives in to his laughter. 

“You can hear… heartbeats?” There’s something a bit odd in Quentin’s tone, under the mirth, and Peter tips his head to the side so he can look at him. 

“Kinda, yeah. I tune it out, mostly- you have no idea how overwhelming it is to hear a hundred heartbeats around you in a crowded gym, for example- but sometimes… yeah.” 

Quentin hums. “And what do you hear now?” 

Peter frowns and focuses outward to the bar at large, allowing the ambient sounds to filter into his consciousness. 

Abruptly, the nerve-wracking adrenaline that had begun to abate cranks back up again. He can’t pinpoint what’s wrong, but something in this place is dissonant, the noises he’s hearing- the heartbeats, the chatter, an oddly overwhelming hum of electricity for such a low-tech bar- not matching up with whatever his hind-brain _thinks_ it should be hearing. 

He hears a startlingly loud cracking noise, then comes back to himself with a jolt. He looks at his hand, only to find that he’s squeezed his lemonade glass so hard it had begun to crack under the pressure. He shakes his head, feeling like he’s trying to clear water from his ears, then looks over at Quentin. He’s watching him, eyes wide, fist clenched on the bar top like he’s trying to stop himself from grabbing Peter. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter says, voice shaky. “Can we- go somewhere else, maybe? I’m just…” His nerves feel frayed. 

“Sure, anything you want, kid.” He pauses, looking a little hesitant, but continues: “My hotel isn’t far- I think I might even be able to scrounge you up some lemonade.”

Peter nods, smiling weakly in acknowledgement of the joke, unable to force words past the rising, inexplicable panic in his throat. They’re silent on the walk over, and the cool night air gives Peter the chance to breathe, to calm down after the stifling atmosphere in the bar. 

Quentin’s hotel room is nice- just as nice as the one that SHIELD has put Peter and his classmates up in. But then, that makes sense- they must be funding Quentin’s accommodations as well. 

Quentin walks over to the minibar while Peter fidgets, hesitantly unzipping the upper armor of his suit and tossing it and his backpack on a nearby chair. This is nicer, quieter- but still overwhelming in its own way, as Peter watches Quentin’s shoulders, now divested of his own armor, flex under the fabric of his undersuit. 

Quentin turns, two drinks in hand, and Peter looks away quickly, embarrassed at having been caught staring. Peter looks down at his feet, and suddenly the tension in the room ratchets up, nearly palpable. 

He hears the soft clinking of two glasses being set down, then quiet, measured footsteps as Quentin crosses the room to stand before him. 

Despite being able to track his every movement, Peter still gasps when fingers gently grip his chin, turning his face up to meet Quentin’s. His eyes are dark and- undeniably, hungry. 

“Peter I- I wasn’t sure about… But then I asked you to come here tonight, and you did. You came with me, when I asked.” His voice is a low rumble, and Peter shivers under the weight of the intent carried in it. “You have to tell me… tell me you want it…” 

Peter closes his eyes, head spinning.

"What do you want, Peter?" Quentin's voice is quiet. He's so close- the warmth of him seeping through Peter's clothes, suddenly so thin and inadequate in such close proximity to another human body, no protection at all from the overwhelming sensation of having Quentin pressed against him. 

"I-" His throat clicks as he swallows, mouth dry. His head spins a bit as he tries to draw in a steadying breath, the scent of Quentin- soot, sweat, the acrid burn of cheap cologne- filling his nose. He wants to pull away. He wants to pull him closer. He wants- 

"Shh," Quentin soothes, hands drifting down to squeeze Peter's hips. "I can show you, if you want. Peter. If you ask for it." One hand slides up Peter's spine, under his shirt, a trail of fire following in its wake. Peter's stomach churns, nausea and dread and something else, something electric and frightening and wonderful, twisting around each other. 

"I don't- I don't know what to do," he whispers. His throat goes tight and to his horror, tears burn at his eyes. He closes them, willing them back, begging his body not to betray him in front of this man. 

Quentin begins to pull away, and Peter's eyes snap open. To his humiliation, he can see the disappointment on Quentin's face before he tucks it away behind a strained smile. "Hey, don't worry about it kid- I get it, you're not ready. That's fine-" 

"No, I-" Peter lets out a frustrated noise and steps back into Quentin's space. Screwing up his courage, he closes his eyes and leans in, tugging Quentin down, finally, for a kiss. He wilts in relief when Quentin's arms come up around him again, pulling him tight against his body. He can feel- he can feel- 

Quentin lets out a grunt of satisfaction, and sparks of heat flare in Peter's gut in response. His stomach swoops, nerves tangling with- with arousal, and the conflicting sensations leave him feeling weak, unsteady. He thinks maybe that if Quentin lets go of him, he won't be able to hold himself up. It takes him a moment to realize he's shaking, trembling under the force of Quentin's kisses, his touches. 

"What do you want, baby?" Quentin asks, and Peter shudders again. There's something- terribly strange about being called that, in this context, with Quentin's burning hands and heavy lidded gaze pinning him in place. He feels like a raw nerve, exposed to the point of pain, craving relief but terrified of what comes with it. 

Peter ducks his head shyly, pressing his forehead against Quentin's collarbone. It'll be easier to say it if he's not looking, he thinks. Maybe. "Please, I want- can you show me? I want- please." 

Maybe not. 

The words stick in his throat, and it burns him, his inadequacy, the knowledge that here, with this man who treated him like he was so grown up, who admired and praised him for being so mature, he feels- and sounds- so much like a child. 

Quentin yanks him into another kiss, this one rough and devouring, threading his fingers through Peter's hair and tugging on the strands. Peter swallows a whimper, heart hammering in his chest, tipping his head back to relieve the pressure on his scalp while Quentin looks him over, considering. He smiles, and something in his gaze thrills and frightens Peter, dangerous and exciting and just a little bit- predatory, almost. Peter feels caught, ensnared. 

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Quentin says, with a sharp grin, and releases Peter's hair so he can push him down onto the bed.

* * *

When it's over, Peter feels surprisingly… hollow. 

He’s curled up on the bed, sheets pulled up to cover his body- which is probably a little silly, at this point, but it makes him feel... something, to not have his bare skin exposed to the cool hotel air. Safer, maybe. 

Quentin’s in the bathroom, showering, cleaning off the remnants of the night’s fight and- everything that had come after. He’d invited Peter to join him, pressing kisses down his sweat-slick spine as Peter had lain, panting and quivering in the aftermath, tangled among the sheets. Peter had mumbled something about not being able to move, his chest clenching at the idea- the proximity, the intimacy, the possibility of doing everything again- 

Quentin had smiled against his skin, letting out a self-satisfied chuckle. He’d rolled him over for another kiss, beard scratching somewhat unpleasantly against Peter’s already-bruised lips, and gone off to shower. The minute he’d left the room, Peter had had the childish urge to call him back, his stomach twisting with the thought of being alone, after everything- 

_Get a grip_ , he tells himself, sternly. _Stop being so weird and clingy_. 

So he lays there, sweat cooling on his skin. His stomach and thighs are beginning to itch, slightly, as the- as they dry, and he thinks that maybe he should get up and follow Quentin into the shower, get cleaned up. He needs to get dressed and go, soon. It’s late, and he hasn’t checked on Ned and MJ- and Betty too, he reminds himself, reluctant and resentful and vaguely guilty about it. Ned probably realized exactly what was going on as soon as he saw Peter in his black suit, and will cover for him while he can, but someone’s bound to notice he’s gone and raise an alarm eventually. 

He wonders briefly what he’ll tell Ned, about where he went, but his mind shies away from that thought almost as soon as it forms.

 _There’s nothing to tell,_ he thinks, trying to sound firm, even if just in his own head. _Nothing he needs to know about, anyway._

Quentin walks back into the room, towel around his waist, hair dripping wet. Peter hadn’t even registered the shower turning off. 

“Your turn, kid,” he says, gesturing towards the bathroom door, which stands slightly ajar. “I’ll start getting your stuff together; I figure you probably need to get out of here soon. Get back before your teachers realize you’re missing.” He gestures again, this time around the room, where the pieces of Peter’s suit are strewn carelessly. 

It’s exactly what Peter had been thinking, while Quentin was in the shower, but hearing it said so casually, like he’s trying to usher Peter out the door- something pangs in his stomach, a yawning ache, sharp-edged and hollow like homesickness, confusingly layered over a sensation that almost feels like relief. He _wants_ to go home- or back to his hotel room, where he can curl up in Tony’s stolen MIT sweatshirt and May’s stolen leggings. 

Some of what he’s feeling must show on his face, because Quentin sits next to him on the bed, hand coming up to rub his side through the thin sheet. He leans over, pushing Peter slightly into the mattress as he does, trailing kisses over the bared skin of Peter’s shoulder. Peter shivers, hair on his arms and neck standing on end. 

“You alright, baby?” he murmurs into Peter’s skin. “I know that was intense, and your first time…” 

Peter jolts. “Um- I didn’t- how did you-” 

Quentin chuckles, dragging his lips up Peter’s throat. “No offense, but it was kind of obvious, kid. Don’t worry,” he pulls away, the smile on his face sharp, almost triumphant. “Practice makes perfect.” 

Embarrassment burns through Peter then, heating his cheeks and twisting in his gut. Obvious, right. Of course. 

He really, really wants to go home. 

“You’re right,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “I should get going.” 

Quentin watches Peter carefully as he sits up, wincing slightly at the way the movement shifts his body. Then he leans in for another kiss. When he pulls away, his gaze is lidded, that odd gleam of triumph still lingering in his eyes. “Don’t worry, baby. I liked it. It’s hot, to get to show you the ropes.” 

That… doesn’t really make Peter feel any better, but. He can appreciate that Quentin’s trying. 

He gives him a smile, then leans in for a kiss before Quentin can see how tremulous it is. He lets it go on long enough that he thinks Quentin won’t be suspicious, then pulls away, ignoring the appreciative gaze that lingers on his body as he slides out of bed. Strange, that that same gaze had made him feel so exhilarated, so overwhelmed, as recently as this morning. Now he just feels… tired. 

His shower is quick, perfunctory, and he washes without really looking down at his own body, eyes tracing the patterns in the shower tile instead. He curses slightly when he gets out and realizes that he forgot to grab his opera clothes from his bag before going into the bathroom. He wraps a towel around his waist and resists the urge to drape another around his shoulders, to keep his body as hidden as possible. There’s nothing there that Quentin hasn’t seen before, and it’s- weird, to be self conscious about it now. 

Peter’s gaze snags on his own reflection in the mirror, and he stops short, staring. 

His lips are slightly swollen, bruised by rough kisses, his chin and neck red with what he realizes, with a jolt, must be beard burn. He can see purpling bruises on his throat and collarbones, low enough that he hopes his shirt will cover them, if he leaves it buttoned all the way up. From the looks of things, the way they’re darkening before his eyes, they’ll have faded away by the morning. 

The worst though, is the hand prints. 

They span Peter’s hips, dark, ugly, and unmistakable. A clear indication of what was done- what he’d been doing. The shadows of fingerprints linger on his wrists, too, and a quick glance under his towel shows similar bruising just above his knee, right were Quentin had held-

He flails a hand out to hit the tap, turning it on and hoping the noise of the running water covers the sound of him stumbling over to the toilet, retching. 

He hadn’t eaten anything before leaving the hotel, too nervous about the upcoming fight, so all that comes up is the remains of the lemonade he’d drunk at the bar, mixed with bile, acid burning his throat and nose. 

_This is so stupid_ , he tells himself furiously, as he heaves once more over the toilet. His hands are shaking so fiercely that he’s afraid to grip the porcelain, worried he might crush it under his fists. _There’s no reason to freak out. You got what you wanted. Stop being a baby about it._

It just- it hadn’t been what he’d expected, is the thing. Or well, it had, mostly- he’s 17, he’s watched porn, he knows how these things go- but it hadn’t felt the way he’d thought it would. Sure, a lot of it had felt good- most of it, even. 

It’s just that nobody ever really talks about the swooping nerves, or the strange, twisting homesickness, or the burning shame-

Peter wishes, suddenly, so powerfully he aches for it down to his bones, that he could go back to this morning, or to the bar. When all their relationship had been was vague flirting, and idle fantasy, and the flattering weight of Quentin’s gaze. 

It’s silly, and foolish, but he wants to take it back. Everything was so much less complicated, before this evening, and he doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions filling his chest, pressing against his ribs and squeezing his heart. He can feel them crawling up his throat, and he swallows compulsively, worried that if he opens his mouth they’ll come pouring out in a torrent, in a scream. 

Eventually he gets up from the floor, flushes, then staggers over to the sink. Luckily there’s disposable toothbrushes and individual toothpaste packets provided by the hotel, and he quickly scrubs the foul taste out of his mouth. He splashes a little water on his face, waits for the redness around his eyes to diminish some. While he waits, he leans against the counter, keeping his eyes firmly on his own face, not letting himself linger on the rest of his body. 

_You’re fine. This is what you wanted. If it wasn’t what you thought, then… Well. Now you know._

Quentin is lying in bed, clearly asleep, or close to it, when Peter finally emerges from the bathroom. He cracks an eye open when Peter approaches the bed, cautious for no reason he can exactly pinpoint. “Still here?” he asks, voice gruff with sleep. 

Peter hesitates, then hums an affirmative. His clothes are piled on a chair, alongside his bag. When he checks it, he sees the black suit has been stuffed inside. He changes quickly, placing his towel in the hotel’s hamper, and slings his bag over his shoulder. 

He looks back at Quentin, lying on the bed. “Um, bye?” He winces when it comes out as a question. 

Quentin waves a hand lazily at him. “See you around, kid. Thanks for the good time.” 

Peter swallows. “Uh, you too.” 

Then he turns on his heel and leaves, trying not to listen to the quiet laughter that follows him out the door.

* * *

Ned and MJ are waiting for him in his hotel room when he gets back, because of course they are. 

“Peter!” Ned cries, pulling him into a hug as soon as he steps through the door. Despite everything that’s gone on between them since this trip started, Peter can’t help but melt into Ned’s arms, burying his head in his friend’s shoulder and clutching him tight. Touching Ned isn’t exactly… uncomplicated, but it feels so, so much better, so much simpler, than the other touches Peter has been receiving recently. Hugging Ned feels safe, for reasons Peter can’t quite articulate, and he holds on for longer than is probably strictly necessary. 

When he pulls back- determinedly blinking back the sting of unshed tears as he goes- he sees MJ hovering a few feet away. Her eyes are dark, serious, obviously scanning his body for injuries. His stomach flips, a little, the familiar feeling of nervous butterflies erupting in his belly as she watches him. 

_I am such a fucking mess,_ he thinks, exasperated by his stupid, indecisive, treacherous brain. _Pick a crush, Parker._

He tries a smile on for her, pushing the thoughts aside. They’re not at the hugging stage, not yet, but for a moment he kind of really, really wishes they were. Not for- not just because he likes her. He just thinks she’d feel safe, too. Like Ned. 

She smiles back at him, but it’s strained. Something’s wrong. 

Peter steps away fully from Ned, making sure his door is closed firmly behind him. Once he’s sure it is, he turns back to where Ned and MJ have moved to sit next to each other on the bed. Peter blinks. They’re closer than Peter’s ever seen them, which is- well. Something like jealousy prickles under his skin.

“What’s going on?” He says, trying to push it aside. Now is not the time. 

They look at each other- having what is clearly, and unnervingly, a silent conversation- then back at him. Ned opens his mouth, looking hesitant, but it’s MJ who blurts out: “I know you’re Spider-Man!” 

Peter stares, gaping. Denials flash through his mind, instinctive, useless, but he knows that if she’s here with Ned, there’s no point. He shoots a glare Ned’s way, exasperated. 

“Come on, man.” 

Ned raises his hands at the same time that MJ smirks. “I figured it out. A long time ago. Ned just confirmed it.” 

Ned nods. “I tried to deny it, dude, but she’s too good.” 

Peter sighs and rubs his forehead. He can feel the headache starting, just behind his eyes. “So you guys were just, what, waiting for me so you could let me know?” 

Ned and MJ trade looks, immediately sobering, and Peter pulls his hand away from his head, slowly. “What is it?”

MJ picks something up from the bedspread, holding it out to Peter. It’s some kind of mechanical arm, with what looks like a lens on the end. He frowns. Before he can ask, she continues. “I went out to the carnival- I figured that’s where you went, and I wanted to check- to find out what you were up to. Then there was the lava monster, or whatever, and I hid in a nearby alleyway. At one point, when you were fighting, this thing came hurtling towards me, out of nowhere. At first it was covered in your webs, but they disintegrated by the time I got back to the hotel and confronted Ned, when I couldn’t find you.” She pauses, perhaps for dramatic effect, then presses a button on the side of the arm. “That’s when it did _this_.” 

An image blooms from the lens, a projection of one of the elementals, miniaturized, swirling throughout the room. Peter sucks in a breath, watching as a familiar figure appears, darting through the air, hurling beams of green light at the elemental. 

The projection ends, and the room goes quiet. Peter feels like he can’t breathe. 

He wants to delay the inevitable realization, push back the truth, but he can’t. As soon as he’d seen the projection- _hologram_ , his mind whispers at him, snagging on the detail and worrying it, instinctively understanding that something about it is important- he’d. He’d known. He knew. There’s no point in denial. 

“Peter?” MJ asks, voice tentative.

 _Oh god_. 

“Oh god,” he blurts, and rips his bag from his back, tearing it open. “Please let it be here, please-” 

He dumps the contents out on the bedspread, shaking out the suit, searching its pockets, even checking inside the mask. When the bag yields nothing, he searches the pockets on his dress trousers, haphazard, already knowing that it’s futile. 

EDITH is gone. 

“Oh no,” he moans, sitting abruptly on the edge of the bed. His knees have gone entirely weak, his legs unable to hold him up a second longer. The room is spinning. “Oh no oh no oh no _oh no_ -”

Ned’s hands fall on Peter’s head, gently tugging his face up. He cradles the back of Peter’s head, and Peter blindly reaches a hand out, resting it on Ned’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of it as he draws in deep, deliberate breaths. Unconsciously, Peter does the same, until his breathing has slowed to match it. 

It’s not the first time Ned’s done this for him, and likely won’t be the last. 

After a few minutes, Ned runs a hand through Peter’s hair. “You with me, dude?” 

Peter nods. “Ned, I fucked up.” 

The story spills out of him, Tony giving him the glasses, the call to action from Fury, befriending Quen-Beck, fighting alongside him, slowly coming to trust him- He skims over the extent of their interactions, only saying that at some point in the evening, Beck must have found the opportunity to steal the glasses. 

“Okay, I won’t lie, dude. That’s- that’s pretty bad,” Ned says, voice shaky. Peter glances over to MJ. She’s frowning, and Peter knows her well enough to know she’s noticed the holes in his story. His stomach drops, but she remains silent. Ned speaks again. “But he’s not authorized to use them, right? Like you still control the AI, right?” 

Peter shakes his head. “He- and whoever he’s working with, I bet- figured out how to make all those elementals happen even without EDITH. He fooled _Nick Fury_ , man. I wouldn’t bet on them not being able to hack EDITH.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees MJ nod. “But that will take awhile, if they can figure it out at all. That gives you time, right?” 

Peter nods, and stands. “Yeah- yeah. You’re right. I just need to- need to go to Fury, tell him what’s happening. I could call him, but I don’t know where Beck’s at with EDITH, or if he has other monitoring capabilities…” He shakes his head, to clear it. It’s okay. He can do this. Get to Berlin, get to Fury, get the glasses back. 

“Ned, I need you to call Aunt May and get her to tell Mr. Harrington that I’m staying with family in Berlin, okay?”

“Okay dude, but what if she asks about-”

“Just tell her I’ll explain everything later. I really just need her to cover for me right now, but I promise I’ll tell her.” He pauses, worrying his lip for a moment. “And ask her to keep Tony from freaking out, too, please? He doesn’t need to get involved, I’ve got this handled.”

Ned looks dubious. “Okay, but is that, like, going to work?” 

Peter sighs. “Probably not, but hopefully with May running interference it’ll take him long enough to break through the protocols Pepper had me set on his armor that I can get this dealt with.” 

“Dude, you wrote protocol’s for Iron Man’s armor?” 

“Ned!”

“Right, not the point.” 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Peter says, strained, and shucks off his shirt. 

Immediately there are matching gasps from the other two, and Peter freezes, hand already reaching thoughtlessly for his belt.

_Fuck oh fuck oh fucking shit-_

He’s changed into his suit- any of his suits- so many times, in so many places- in alleys, in Tony’s lab, in the bathroom at school, under an overpass, that one time- that it’s become normalized for him to strip down to his boxers, no matter who’s in the room with him. Aside from the first few times, it's never given him a second’s pause- even in front of Ned, whose gaze was always partially envious, partially speculative, and partially something else entirely, something that had made Peter’s pulse thrum in his ears. 

He’d forgotten, this time, about the bruises. 

“Peter, what-?” Ned stutters out. Peter closes his eyes against the concern he hears there. He doesn’t have time to cry about this again. 

“It’s fine, Ned, don’t worry about it.” 

“Dude, come on, those are-” 

“It’s _nothing_.” Peter takes a deep breath. His friends aren’t stupid- he knows they know what these bruises mean, how he got them, probably even who gave them to him. He's already told them he'd been with Beck since the fight. “It was consensual, okay? I- I asked for it.” 

He should look them in the eyes, to sell it, but he finds that he can’t.

He startles and snaps his eyes open when a hand lands on his chest, just over his heart. It’s MJ, fingers gently tracing some of the worst of the hickies, including one on his collarbone that he knows has the distinct impression of teeth marks in it. 

He’s never been this close to her before, and it knocks the wind out of him. He reaches up a hand of his own, intending to pull her away, but ends up curling his fingers loosely around her wrist, just resting there. 

He was right: her touch does feel safe. 

“I’ll believe you,” she begins, voice slow, deliberate, “if you say you asked for it. But Peter- did you _want_ it?” 

His response catches in his throat. He doesn’t- he can’t- 

He has to _go_. 

“MJ-” he whispers, voice cracking. 

She pulls away, still so gentle, and turns her palm as she goes so that her fingers catch his. She squeezes, once, then lets him go, stepping back to give him space. “Okay. We’ll talk about this later.” 

He shakes his head again, to clear it, and turns toward the bed to grab his suit. He tugs his pants down- ignoring the twin intakes of breath that come, when the bruises on his legs are revealed- and pulls the suit on. 

When he’s finished, he turns to look at them. They’ve moved to stand shoulder to shoulder again. The three of them stare at each other, for a long moment, then Ned sighs. He loops an arm around MJ’s waist, tugging her along despite her half-hearted squeak of protest, and steps forward so he can hook his other arm around Peter’s neck. They end up with their arms around each other, foreheads pressed together. Peter closes his eyes and breathes in the familiar scent of them, MJ’s shampoo, Ned’s aftershave- his usual one, not the god-awful one Betty bought him in Venice- pulling as much strength and comfort as he can from them. 

Then he steps away, squaring his shoulders. He grabs the projector from the side table, then moves to the window. He slides it open, then looks back, once more. They’re watching him, faces solemn, arms still wrapped around each other’s waists. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Peter says. “Anyone who knows is in danger.” Then he leaps out the window, into the night.

* * *

The shot that kills Fury comes out of nowhere, too fast for Peter to stop. Too fast even for him to shout. 

He watches Fury fall, yelling his name, but mechanical whirring behind him indicates that the thing that shot Fury- the drone- is still there. He whips his head around and catches a glimpse of it as the office building begins to dissolve around him. 

He flings out a wrist, aiming his webshooter, but the drone is faster. 

The shot hits him dead center, throwing him back and over a ledge he can’t see. He’s falling for a terrifying moment, bouncing from ledge to ledge, before landing painfully on concrete. 

He staggers to his feet, winded from the shot and the fall. He sucks in ragged breaths, one hand going up to his chest, feeling around the edges of the hole in the molded plastic armor of his suit. To his relief, his hands don’t come away bloody. Whatever the drone had shot him with, it hadn’t been able to make it through. 

A green laser strikes his shoulder and he looks up, a whirling mass of drones circling him. More lasers join the first, pulsing light and and the noise of the drones disorienting to Peter’s senses. Then, Beck's voice booms through the air, surrounding Peter on all sides. 

“Wow, Peter. Wow. I thought we were close.” Beck’s voice echoes around him, dripping with mock-hurt. “Fury always had to die, but you didn’t.”

Peter grits his teeth and takes aim at the nearest drone. “Stop hiding, Beck!” he shouts, and fires- 

-into thin air, the image of the drone melting away. 

“I tried to help you see how good things could be for you, how good _I_ could be to you. And now you’re making me do this.” 

Suddenly the walls are collapsing around him, a yawning void of darkness bursting into existence as green smoke floods the air around him. He looks down at himself, only to find that he’s in his original Spider-Man suit, the one Tony gave him. The one that’s currently packed away in his bag, somewhere in Prague. 

He touches his chest, looking down. Despite its unblemished appearance, he can feel the hole from where the drone shot him. 

“It’s not real,” he tells himself. If he can just keep himself grounded, reminded of what’s actually happening as opposed to what Beck wants him to see, then he- he can- 

“Do you even know what’s real?” Beck’s voice sounds like it’s speaking directly into Peter’s ear, so close he can almost feel the hot puff of breath against his neck- 

Peter whirls, striking out blindly, and hits something solid with a crack that makes him cry out. He cradles his fist, looking around wildly. He’s- he’s surrounded by mirrors, jagged glass shards taller than his head, reflecting hundreds of versions of himself back, endless, in every direction he turns. 

“I don’t know that I trust your judgement, Peter. You told me you were an adult, that you were so mature, so ready to take whatever I had to give. But look at yourself.” 

The images in the mirrors change. Now it’s no longer a hundred Spider-Mans surrounding him, shoulders heaving, injured hands held tightly against their chests. Now the image reflected back is of himself, in the black suit, standing in the middle of an opulent hotel room. His mask is off, his hair tousled, cheeks red. He’s stripping out of the suit, slowly, glancing furtively up, as though looking into a camera. 

“That’s it, baby. You look so good.” Beck's words slide over Peter’s skin, just as they had that night, called out idly from where he’d been lying on the bed, watching Peter strip, talking him through it-

“This isn’t- it’s a lie, it’s not real-” The memory is real, too real, but this is just a recreation of it, obviously. There hadn’t been a camera- Peter would have heard it. He would have. 

“Denial, Peter? That’s not very _mature_ of you, now is it? What happened to that man in the hotel, so _eager_ to prove himself to me?” 

Peter backs up, shaking his head, trying to get away. The mirrors burst around him, and he throws his arms up as millions of glass shards fly towards his face. 

“Maybe you need to _GROW UP!”_

Something slams into his stomach and he goes flying through the air. He hangs, for a moment suspended, weightless, before he begins to fall, arms flailing uselessly, trying to find anything to grasp onto for purchase, to slow his descent. 

He slams into the hood of a car, with such force that he’s bounced back into the air. When he lands again he rolls, staggering off the crumpled metal, trying to right himself, get his bearings. 

He’s outside on the street, beside the office building- now revealed to be an abandoned construction sight- blinking in the harsh sunlight. 

He turns, frantic, trying to catch a glimpse of Beck, or his drones. From above him he hears a noise, like glass shattering, and looks up in time to see an avalanche of drones descending on him, the bright midday sky splitting open like rotten fruit, revealing a roiling, black-ish green mass of smoke beyond it. 

He flings his hands up, instinctively shielding his head. What must be blasts from the drones hit him, first in the shoulder, then in the knee, and he goes down, leg crumpling uselessly below him. 

Peter hears the crunching of gravel in front of him, and looks up to see Beck, standing tall- impossibly tall- above him. “Why- why are you _doing this?_ ” Peter pants, holding his shoulder, clenching his teeth to trap the pained whimper that wants to escape him. 

“I created Mysterio to give the world _someone_ to believe in!” Beck’s helmet melts away, revealing the face that Peter has spent so much of the last few days, idiotically, _pathetically_ obsessing over. Beck’s eyes are wild, burning with something Peter’s never seen in him before- never seen in _anyone_ before- a sort of fervent, consuming obsession.

Beck reaches out, fingers hovering a few inches away from Peter’s still-masked face. “And it worked, didn’t it? You believed in me, Peter. You wanted to take what I was offering so _badly_.” 

Peter glares up at him, ignoring the hot wash of shame that floods him at Beck's words. “Yeah, but I figured you out, didn’t I? And so will everyone else. They’ll realize the truth.” 

Beck face twists, derision warping his handsome features. “ _I_ control the truth; Mysterio _is_ the truth!”

Another blow hits Peter, this one knocking him flat, a shot to the head that has his ears ringing, vision swimming dangerously. He groans, trying to pull himself back up, but a boot lands on his shoulder, pinning him to the ground. 

Beck sneers down at him. “Speaking of- what would _Tony_ say, if he knew the truth, huh Peter? The truth about what _you_ did, how you _begged_ -”

“Stop-” Peter coughs, arms pushing weakly at the limb pinning him. “Stop it!”

Beck’s laughter rings out, but not from his mouth. The noise comes from all around them, a cacophony fed through what sounds like a million microphones, sound crashing over Peter like a tidal wave. Beck grins. “Or maybe he _does_ know the truth about you, what a _slut_ you are? Maybe he knows _first hand_ , and I don’t have to be the one to tell him-” 

Peter freezes, his brain stalling on the implication. 

“No,” he whispers, horror and disgust rippling through him. 

“Oh, I think _yes_ , baby. Is that where you learned to like it so much, huh? Do you call him _Daddy?_ ” 

Peter yells something incoherent and pushes with all his strength, rolling out from under Beck’s boot and springing to his feet. He shoots a web, one that goes right through Beck’s torso, but it catches on _something_ , and Peter yanks whatever it is toward him. Less than a second later, a sudden rush of foreboding races up his spine, and he throws himself to the side, the crane he brought toppling down missing him by a hairsbreadth. 

Beck is laughing again, the noise just as thunderously disorienting as before. Peter whirls, shooting web after web, sometimes bringing drones that he can’t see crashing to the ground, but mostly missing, webs disappearing harmlessly into the fog. 

Something hits Peter in the stomach, _again_ , and he lands painfully on the ground, breath wheezing out of him. He definitely has broken ribs, he can tell, and probably a minor concussion. He needs to get up, needs to- to do something, but he can’t seem to find the strength. 

Beck looms over him, illusion tech making him seem ten stories tall, Peter just a speck at his feet. A bug that Beck seems eager to crush under his heel. 

“You made your choice, Peter.” Beck’s voice is booming, rattling the ground underneath Peter. “All you had to do was look pretty and let me get on with my work. But now-” 

A blast like a gunshot rings out. Suddenly the illusion is gone. Daylight comes flooding back in, sirens splitting the air as half a dozen cars pull up. Beck, normal-sized again, wearing nothing but a strangely-patterned bodysuit, falls to his knees, several paces away from Peter. 

Peter looks up, breathing ragged, to see Fury, somehow alive, limping forward, gun in hand. 

Beck twitches on the ground, surrounded by SHIELD agents who come rushing onto the scene. 

“Fury,” Peter gasps. He’s still on the ground, and he pushes himself up on his elbows, swallowing down a sudden surge of bile as the change in position makes his head spin and his stomach lurch. _Definitely concussed,_ he thinks. 

Fury stalks towards him. “Beck’s people will try to find everyone who can expose him. Who’d you tell?” 

Peter struggles to his feet, Fury not moving to help him, gaze focused and assessing. “Um,” Peter starts, trying to get his scattered thoughts in order. 

“I know you told someone, so who’d you tell? Huh?” 

Peter’s head is still spinning, and he’s suddenly very sure he’s about to vomit on Nick Fury’s shoes. 

“Come on, Parker! Who. Did. You. Tell?” 

“Okay, okay-” he gasps. “Just Ned and MJ, from my class.”

“That’s all?” Fury presses, intent. 

“Ye- yeah. They wouldn’t tell anyone, I trust them.” 

Fury stares at him a minute longer, then shakes his head with a chuckle. “I don’t know that I find your choice in people to trust all that reliable, but I believe you.” 

“What?” Peter asks, a little taken aback. 

A triumphant smirk splits Fury’s face. “You are so… gullible.” 

“What?” Peter asks again, feeling slow, and stupid. 

“I mean you’re smart as a whip, and so pretty it doesn’t really matter what’s going on under those curls. But you are a _sucker._ ” 

Peter’s vision swims, and when he blinks, hard, to clear it, he finds that Fury is gone, replaced with-

Beck, flanked on all sides by drones. Peter whips his head around to look over at the spot where Beck- the other Beck- had fallen to the ground, and finds the area empty, the SHIELD agents and cars and police all gone as well. 

Beck takes a step towards him, and Peter reflexively backs away. Beck shakes his head, a falsely rueful expression twisting his mouth into an exaggerated frown. “And now all your friends have to die.”

The green fog comes rushing back in, giant shards of glass and massive chunks of rock crashing to the ground around him, forcing Peter to stumble back. 

“We could have been so good, Peter. All you had to do was let me fool you a little longer.” Suddenly hands are clamping around Peter’s wrists, yanking him forward. His mask is ripped off his head, and Beck is up in Peter's space, scant inches away, breath hot on Peter’s face. Then his mouth is on Peter’s, harsh and unyielding, fingers yanking painfully on Peter’s curls. Peter’s mind blanks, unable to process the sensation, and when Beck lets him go he stumbles away, feeling as though he’s seconds from keeling over. 

Beck’s smile is small, this time, almost- sad. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.” 

Peter’s senses _scream,_ louder and more urgent than he’s perhaps ever felt them. He turns with a gasp, eyes wildly scanning for the danger-

-just in time to be hit, head on, by a speeding train. 

**Author's Note:**

> me, writing Beck: i need a 5 hour shower to recover from this, and also i _cannnot wait_ to kill this man
> 
> unfortunately we all have to wait a little longer to get there, but we will get there! this is the hurt part of the hurt/comfort, and the second half is underway. this just got so fucking long i needed to split it or i was going to go legitimately mad. as usual i refrain from making promises wrt cadence of updates, because the world is on fire etc etc.
> 
> i would love to hear what you thought; please feel free to drop a comment! 
> 
> also, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://hollow-dweller.tumblr.com/)!


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